New Orleans, pt. 2

On the anniverary of the hurricane I met Hilary Duff, the idol of pre-teen girls everywhere. She was very sweet and her mother facilitated small talk between us. Recognizing her own mother, Kelley and joked that Mrs. Duff was trying to hook up her uninterested daughter and I ("why don't you go out with that nice boy from the volunteer place instead? He goes to college. And he has no tattoos and says "ma'am."')
Because that night was the anniversary, the only appropriate course of action was a levee party on Lake Ponchartrain. After the night wore on the now-toxic Ponchartrain looked apealing. We swam there and now have odd bumps on odd places. If we die anytime soon Kelley and I respectfully request that we be added as belated Katrina victims.
On the way back we visited my 97 year-old great-grandmother in Louisiana, who accussed herself of being senile for saying "generate" instead of "germinate" and for forgetting the word "cataract." She is very sweet and only became militant when ordering Kelley and I to eat gumbo, which turned out to be the best gumbo I've eaten.
It was hard to peel ourselves out of Louisina after six days, but, though Kelley and I froze ourselves at a Waffle House, we successfully made it back home before classes.